


rational animals

by the_littlest_goblin



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, EGTW spoilers, Future Fic, High Spy Times, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Political Intrigue, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27924004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_littlest_goblin/pseuds/the_littlest_goblin
Summary: The peace negotiations hold strong, but a bloodless war continues to wage on in the shadows. Throughout the conflict and chaos, two scholars-turned-reluctant-bureaucrats collude across enemy lines to keep their respective nations on the right path, taking 'fraternizing with the enemy' to new heights.Cold wars can be pretty hot if you play your cards right.
Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 72
Kudos: 236





	rational animals

**Author's Note:**

> ["I can see a version of the future where Caleb and Essek are like, spymasters of their respective countries, but every once and a while they'll meet up...they're still spymasters of different countries going like 'Oh, hey you. I remember when we... remember?' But we're also, fucking spies."](https://youtu.be/RjCj_ILG0bE?t=5516)  
> Liam O'Brien said shadowgast can have a sexy spy future as a treat and I said 'sir yes sir.'
> 
> Many thanks to MithrilWren for beta reading!

_ When evening has come, I return to my house and go into my study. At the door I take off my clothes of the day, covered with mud and mire, and I put on my regal and courtly garments; and decently reclothed, I enter the ancient courts of ancient men, where, received by them lovingly, I feed on the food that alone is mine and that I was born for. There I am not ashamed to speak with them and to ask them the reason for their actions; and they in their humanity reply to me. And for the space of four hours I feel no boredom, I forget every pain, I do not fear poverty, death does not frighten me. I deliver myself entirely to them. _

—Niccolo Machiavelli, Letter to Francesco Vettori

They always find each other, somehow. They’ll go months, sometimes years without contact, the time ever trickling away from them, indifferent as it is to the desires of even those who bend fate and physics to their will. If any two people could overcome the inexorable inertia of time, it should be them, but such power eludes.

So, they resign themselves to illicit seconds and hours snatched between wretched responsibility. Even with teleportation at both their fingertips, it is a rare privilege not to wake up alone.

Still, it’s more than some people get. More than either of them ever dared to want, least of all from each other.

* * *

Five years is an odd anniversary to celebrate. Half a decade—hardly any time, on the scale of a life, even less significant in the grand scheme of history.

However, the way the last five years have gone, the Empire has earned a celebration, and Caleb has earned a fucking break. Not that an opulent ball was ever going to provide him with one.

Five years since the battle with the Assembly, and Castle Ungebroch has been restored to its previous, immaculate state, although it stands mostly vacant without a royal family to inhabit it. Tonight though, the grand hall is alive and alight with people and decorations. Her Ladyship Jester Lavorre volunteered to be the celebration’s coordinator, and her touch is visible to anyone who knows her well enough to look, from the shades of green in the decor to the oddly-shaped cookies that snuck their way into the catering.

Jester herself has disappeared, no doubt for mischievous reasons, and Caleb casts around to find another one of his friends. Their company is the only thing that’s going to get him through this party; if one more minor Dwendalian lord or Condordian diplomat tries to corner him to talk shop and curry his favor, he’s going to cast a fireball into the center of the crowd.

The Mighty Nein remain elusive, but as Caleb scans the mass of people, he catches sight of a different, familiar figure, one that causes his minor irritation and anxiety to disappear and be replaced by a nauseating mixture of full-blown panic and unbidden excitement.

He hurries over to that corner of the room, trying his best not to seem like he’s in a rush while he dodges chatting and idling guests.

“ _What are you doing here_?” he hisses under his breath once he finally reaches his quarry.

Lord Dezran Thane fixes him with a cool, mildly confused look, and for a brief second Caleb worries he has misjudged the situation. Perhaps this disguise, utilized so long ago, was based on a real person, and Caleb has just accosted a legitimate nobleman.

But then the elf’s lips quirk into an amused smile, and there is no mistaking that expression.

“Celebrating the Empire’s renaissance, of course. Isn’t that why everyone is here?”

Essek’s eyes flick over Caleb’s shoulder, eyebrows raising a hair in the subtlest of warnings. Caleb glances around as inconspicuously as possible, understanding dawning on him as he sees the starosta of Zadash out of the corner of his eye, standing mere feet away and tapping a finger against their glass of wine, clearly looking for an opening to trap Caleb in conversation. _Again_.

Thinking fast, Caleb turns back and extends a hand in invitation, bowing his head slightly. “May I have this dance, Lord Thane?”

No better place to have a clandestine conversation during a large party than flush together on the dance floor, voices hidden under the music.

Dezran takes his hand wordlessly, and Caleb leads them both away in a path that keeps the starosta conveniently out of his line of sight.

“So?” he whispers as soon as they’ve reached near enough to the band that flute and fiddle drown out conversation. He places his free hand on Lord Thane’s waist, finding the illusory robes perfectly aligned with what he can feel beneath, right down to the texture of the fabric.

“Wait,” Essek says, and the hand holding Caleb’s disappears into his robes. Essek mutters an incantation under his breath, something Caleb can’t quite make out.

“What was that?” he asks, as Essek’s hand slips back into his grip, somatic motions complete.

“Just a little precaution against eavesdroppers. For discretion’s sake.” 

Caleb burns to ask further, but puts his arcane curiosity aside, instead reiterating, “Why are you here?”

“Parties make for a good cover. I wanted to warn you: the Bright Queen was not pleased to hear of your latest trade accord. She does not appreciate being snubbed once again.”

Caleb shakes his head in frustration. “And who exactly is it who keeps informing her of the Empire’s private adjudication?” he jabs. Lord Dezran’s face remains unperturbed. 

“I am not a spy, Mr. Widogast. I am a researcher.”

“So you keep saying,” Caleb huffs. “And I am not in charge of the Empire’s mercantile dealings, yet somehow it falls to me to handle the repercussions.”

“I am here as a friend.” A note of urgency enters Essek’s voice, and Caleb’s annoyance fades to the back of his mind as unease takes root. “The Bright Queen has grown volatile recently, even more so than years past. There were talks of aggressive action.”

“Over a trade agreement?” Caleb gapes. Essek nods.

“She was talked down, for now, but I do not have confidence that this is the last time she will consider striking against the Empire. And there’s more,” he breathes, expression grave. “The Lens has caught wind of your research. ”

Caleb blanches, forgetting the dance for a moment. Essek covers his faltering with a sweeping spin.

“How?” he hisses when they are face to face once again. “That research is not through the Academy.”

“I could ask you the same question.” Essek’s eyes flash with real anger for the first time. “We had an agreement. You’re lucky this information got to me first. If the Empress finds out what I have shared with you—”

“I am aware,” Caleb snaps, leaning close into Essek to cover the spike in his voice. They are almost nose to nose now, a familiar electricity sparking between them, enhanced rather than dampened by the quarrel.

“I have no more interest in another war than you, Shadowhand. Decidedly less, I would imagine. I know the risks, and I swear to you, I have not shared that research with another soul.” 

“Caleb.” Essek’s voice drops to an even softer hush—still bitter, yet almost pleading in its intensity. His warm breath caresses Caleb’s cheek. “I need you to tell me, and be honest… What really happened to the other beacon?”

The air escapes Caleb’s lungs, just in time for the final crescendo of the song to fade out. The dancing crowd stills, dropping their partners’ hands to applaud the bards as they take a bow. Amid the din of clapping, as the fiddler positions his bow to strike into the next tune, Caleb leans in to whisper in Essek’s ear.

“ _Not here.”_

* * *

“Congratulations.” There is no bitterness in Astrid’s voice as she greets him, no strain in her smile, but Caleb can still recognize the wall behind her eyes when she looks at him, hiding any emotion on its other side. He knows that look well, having seen it so often in the mirror. “You won the race.” 

Caleb can do nothing but nod. 

What role the scourgers played in the Assembly’s coup is ambiguous, to say the least. No one would believe that such an elite force would have gone unutilized, especially given Ikithon’s involvement, but with no direct evidence that any Vollstrucker were present for the assassinations, the decimated government is not keen to jail any more of its resources than necessary. 

He knows she was there. He _knows._ It might even have been her hand that slipped poison into the king’s goblet, or her knife that slit the prince’s throat. Yet here she stands in front of him, after everything, ready and waiting to take the next orders— _his_ orders. And he can’t bring himself to be anything but glad for her presence.

“I’m really not sure what I’m supposed to do now,” she admits. “I have never been in the position to train my own boss.”

“You and me both,” he replies.

“I thought maybe I could bring you up to date on some of our… ongoing projects. This seemed like a good place to start.” She waves a hand, and begins leading him through the doors into the depths of the Vergessen Sanatorium. He recognizes the path from the last time he walked these wretched halls.

This time, the beacon is unguarded. It sits, pulsing on its tripod in the middle of the laboratory, oblivious to all the chaos it has caused.

“I thought…” Caleb trails off, mouth agape. “The last time I saw that, Ludinus Da’leth was teleporting away with it.”

“It wasn’t a full _Teleport_ , it seems,” Astrid explains, staring straight ahead as she speaks. “He was too drained for such a powerful spell at that point, I imagine. He had to settle for a short-range substitute, and only made it as far as the castle exterior.”

Caleb tears his eyes away from the beacon to look at her. “You…?”

Astrid shakes her head. “I wish I could take credit. It was Eadwulf who ran into him as he tried to run. Da’leth was far too weak for another fight at that point. Wulf took it easily before he could make another escape, and brought it straight back here.”

Caleb pauses a moment, considering her, and how far he is willing to press.

He keeps his tone casual and benign as he asks, “Was this something the Vollstrucker were instructed to do? Recover the beacon, I mean?”

“Not explicitly.” There is a knowing glint in her eye as she speaks. “But it was clear to us at that point what was happening—and how it would play out. We all acted in the way we thought best served the Empire. That is our purpose, after all.”

Caleb nods in mute agreement, inwardly peeling apart her delicate phrasing for the truth buried underneath. 

Her hints are only reinforcing what he already suspected. The Cerberus Assembly owed its failure to infighting almost as much as to the Mighty Nein’s attack. Theoretically, the Vollstrucker would side with Ikithon in that situation, but they must have known he was dead at that point, or else they saw how the tides of the battle were turning. Either way, they reoriented their loyalties accordingly. Recovering the beacon was a strategic move that could act as a show of good faith to whomever came out on top.

Setting speculation aside, Caleb returns his attention to the beacon. “Who else knows it is here?”

“Me. Eadwulf. And now you. These labs have been more or less abandoned since the battle. Not much to do without Master Ikithon here to oversee them.”

If Caleb were more present in that moment, he would have searched for a hint of grief or of joy in her voice. Instead, his mind is a thousand miles away, staring at the fountain of possibility at his fingertips.

“Let’s keep it that way. For now.”

Astrid smiles. “Whatever you say, _Kommandant.”_

* * *

Caleb is not a leader. He is not a legislator. He is definitely not a spy. 

He almost was. He was supposed to be, once upon a time. But he’d left that path behind, or so he thought.

King Dwendal is dead. So is his son. The Cerberus Assembly nearly took out the entire royal line, and if not for the Mighty Nein’s intervention and the Cobalt Soul’s exposé, Ludinus Da’leth would now wield absolute power over the Dwendalian Empire.

Instead, the princess survives, as a temporary figurehead if nothing else, and Ludinus has fled to unknown corners of Wildemount, nursing heavy wounds that, for all his immense power, he cannot heal with his own magic. Trent Ikithon is dead, along with much of King Dwendal’s inner circle. What remains of the law is rounding up the rest of the Assembly members involved in the attempted coup.

And somehow, the Mighty Nein are left to clean up the mess, because apparently when you help create a power vacuum, you’re also expected to help fill it.

They sit down to meeting after meeting over the subsequent weeks, discussing with the surviving government leaders the seemingly infinite problems that are now their responsibility. A traumatized princess, a handful of royal advisors, and seven adventurers—this is the new, unofficial council of the Dwendalian Empire, outlining policies and dividing up domains of governance to replace the toppled regime. 

Caleb can’t help but think of the wish Trent confided in him, over a year ago now, for his favorite pupil to one day inherit his position. Most of the tasks the council foists upon him—like taking over the Augen Trust—do not fall under the jurisdiction of the former Archmage of Civil Influence, and the title itself no longer exists. But, as Caleb listens with a sinking feeling of resignation to Crown Marshal Damurag’s unsubtle hints about who would be best suited to assume control of the currently leaderless Vollstrucker, he wonders if Ikithon hasn’t gotten his wish after all.

“You don’t have to do this,” Beau insists to him for the third time during their short recess. The Mighty Nein have all gathered around Caleb in a castle alcove several halls away from the meeting room. “Just tell them to fuck off, they’ll find someone else to be their spymaster or whatever.”

“No.” He’s known, really since the idea was first proposed, what he is going to do. “I’m going to take the position.”

He gazes around at his friends, his _family,_ these people who have made more than clear their willingness to kill one of the few surviving officeholders of the Empire, just because they were making Caleb uncomfortable.

“If I am in charge of it, then I can _change_ it. This is perfect, really.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “It is the opportunity I have been looking for.”

“That’s not what you told me.” Beau’s stare is devoid of the anger he expected, but her eyes still bore into him with accusation. “You were talking about taking over the school. You had plans.”

Caleb sighs again. “Well, plans can change. We don’t always get what we want. But that should not stop us from doing the right thing when the opportunity presents itself, should it?”

* * *

Essek has been in Rexxentrum many times over the years, but he’s never worn his real, undisguised visage beyond the walls of Caleb’s home. He feels every set of eyes upon him in here, like needles pricking his skin. It is the type of scrutiny that can only be born of fear; most of these people have never seen a drow in person before, much less a whole group. For those who have, the encounters were violent. Tension lurks in the air, thick as smoke, as the Dynasty’s envoy takes their seats.

Beside Essek, Umavi Thelyss sits with impeccable posture, her face a portrait of pleasant neutrality. Essek puts on his usual haughty mask, pushing away all the memories from childhood where he mimicked her every mannerism. He is here as a representative of the Dynasty in his own right, not as her puppet.

On the other side of the table sits a collection of interchangeable Empire officials; some, Essek recognizes by sight, others he knows by name because Caleb warned him of the guest list beforehand. Only two of the attendees really mean anything to him: Beauregard—a blue dot tacked onto the end of a line of red uniforms, a last minute representative of the Cobalt Soul added only at Caleb’s insistence—and of course, Caleb himself, latest to arrive and sitting down in the last remaining seat, directly across from the Essek.

Caleb wears the passage time as comfortably as he wears his coat. Spots of gray have appeared in the stubble on his chin, and hints of silver glint at his temples as well, looking like ash in the embers of a fire. The crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes seem etched deeper than past years, or maybe that is only a trick of the light. His clear blue eyes are framed by reading glasses.

Conversely, Essek looks hardly any different than the day they met, his slow-aging elvish blood keeping him forever out of step with Caleb. It’s a fact they both pretend doesn’t bother them, but is getting harder and harder to ignore.

In the corner of the room, a gnome woman sits with a quill poised on a long roll of paper. She clears her throat, and as she begins to speak, the pen moves along the parchment under its own power, scratching out the words as fast as she says them.

“Commencing with negotiations of alliance between the Dwendalian Empire and the Krynn Dynasty. The hour is nine o’clock on the second of Horisal, 848 P.D.” 

As he settles into his chair, Caleb glances up just enough to make eye contact with Essek. The corners of his lips twitch upward, a near-imperceptible smile full of triumph and private satisfaction, which Essek returns.

* * *

The first time comes out of nowhere.

Nowhere, unless of course you count all the months of buildup; the tested waters, the sly smiles, the admittedly transparent flirtations that were a means to an end until they weren’t. The kisses on the forehead, the late night talks about past sins and future reparations, the damaged friendship slowly rebuilt, brick by repentant brick.

Caleb goes to Essek’s tower alone for one such conversation. The Mighty Nein are only in town for one evening, having come to consult the Dynasty’s libraries on their newest Tharizdun lead before following along the thread. 

Essek tries not to feel too strongly about it, when Caleb shows up at his door with a bottle of wine and a pile of parchment that comprises a half-finished spell and a half-believable excuse for the visit. It is an immeasurably impressive project, ten times as ambitious as the transmogrification they completed together. Essek is as proud of Caleb as he is fearful of the day Caleb inevitably surpasses him in skill, when he will have nothing more to teach and thus nothing more to offer.

But he finds something new that night which he can give to Caleb, now that Caleb’s spellbook is nearly as full as his own. A way to repay those acts of mercy and kindness, one that they can both enjoy. 

Caleb’s lips are rough and chapped, his cheeks scratchy with sandpaper stubble, and Essek marvels at the insanity, that the texture of rough stone should feel so pleasant against the softest parts of him. He pushes and grabs, aggressive in a way Essek has never known him to be; yet something tells him that he is only seeing a fraction of the passion that stews behind Caleb’s somber veneer.

Wanting is not an unfamiliar feeling to Essek. He has wanted many things in his life. _Desire_ , though, this thrumming heat that boils under his skin—this is new, and intense, frighteningly so.

The only remedy to the searing fire is Caleb’s touch, it seems. His hands on Essek’s arms, back, every inch of him, trail a soothing salve wherever they wander. Ironic, given that Caleb’s skin is even hotter than Essek’s own, as though he has coated himself with flames.

The only logical solution is to get closer.

 _Logical_. What a laughable concept. 

He tries to cling to logic, but rationality slips through his grasp with every moment they spend here, together. His own bed is made unknown terrain by Caleb’s presence in it, and Essek is a curious creature by nature. The instinct to explore and discover overpowers reason, and his better sense melts away under Caleb’s inferno, not to be missed.

It will return in the morning, and with it the dreadful consequences, but for tonight he is free to revel in the joy of it. Of _him_. 

* * *

Caleb leads them out of the party to one of the smaller castle meeting rooms which he knows to be unlocked. Inside is a simple, ebony table surrounded with red-upholstered chairs, and a single painting depicting a pastoral countryside as the only decoration.

Essek drops his disguise, and Caleb indulges in the rush of pleasure that surges through him. It has been some time since he’s seen that face.

Business can wait a moment. He closes the distance between them with two clean steps and presses his lips hard against Essek’s. Essek parts them welcomingly, as hungry as Caleb to make up for lapsed time, but he keeps his hands at his side and his posture stiff. Message received, Caleb breaks the kiss and steps back after only a few seconds.

“We have it,” he starts without preamble. “ _I_ have it.”

Essek allows every ounce of the anger and hurt and betrayal to show clearly on his face as they stare each other down. The tight line of his frown is still wet from Caleb’s kiss. 

“How long?”

“It never left Rexxentrum.”

Essek’s hands curl into fists and then out again. His voice remains steady as he speaks, but a whirlpool of emotion swims in the silver oceans of his eyes. “You told me that Da’leth stole it. You _showed_ me the reports from all the missions you’ve sent to track him down and retrieve it.”

“I did,” Caleb admits. He has his own storm of conflicting emotions roiling in his gut, but this is no time to sort them all out, so he leaves it to stew for now. “They were not fake. We have been searching tirelessly for Ludinus. But it was never about the beacon.”

“Where is it?” Essek demands, almost before Caleb has even finished his sentence.

Caleb wants to tell him, so very badly.

 _What’s stopping you?_ says a voice in his head. _You trust him, don’t you?_

_Do you?_

“What would you have had me do?” Caleb finds himself saying, defensiveness rising in his throat as Essek glares daggers. “Returning it would have meant admitting that we lied about the beacons during the peace negotiations. Or do you think your queen is so naïve as to believe that the Empire just happened to uncover two coveted religious relics on our soil within a few years of each other?”

“No. She would not have believed that. You were right to keep this a secret from her.” Essek’s voice is glacial. “But you should have told _me_.”

* * *

“You are a madman.”

The accusation stumbles from Caleb’s lips in a laugh. Far from offended, Essek grins back at him, mildly self-deprecating.

“So I have been told,” he mutters. He moves to tug the parchment back towards himself, but Caleb keeps a steadfast hand placed on one corner, daring Essek to pull it with more force and risk tearing his precious notes.

Essek backs down from the challenge, of course, and watches with poorly disguised reverence as Caleb continues to pour over some of his most closely-guarded projects.

“You know, I could be executed for showing these to you. This is dunamantic research the Bright Queen would die before seeing in the hands of the Empire.” He isn’t sure what prompts him to interrupt the silence; the words spill out just as he thinks them. He wishes he could blame his lack of inhibition on alcohol, but they haven’t had a drop to drink this evening. 

“Well, the Bright Queen can add it to the list of all the many things you’ve shared with me that you should not have.”

Essek laughs dryly, though he can’t help but tense up ever so slightly. The image of the Bright Queen reading off a list of charges against him cuts a little too close for comfort. He wishes he hadn’t brought it up in the first place.

Instead of voicing his distress, Essek glosses over it, following Caleb’s lead in making jest of the situation.

“Apostasy has its benefits,” he says, trying to mimic Caleb’s glibness. “These ideas have been gathering dust in my laboratory for years. There is no one in the Dynasty I would trust to peer review.” He laughs, and adds, “There is no one in the Dynasty I really consider a peer.”

It’s arrogance, to be sure, but Caleb can’t bring himself to condemn it; he understands exactly what Essek means. He has scarce time these days to dedicate to his own studies, but whenever he finds a spare hour to spend in the Academy’s facilities, the research assistants there are useless to him. Even Astrid and Eadwulf look at him blankly when he tries to explain some of his theories. 

Tentatively, Caleb reaches across the desk to pick up a quill from the inkwell. In doing so, he leans a little further into Essek’s space than is strictly necessary, lingers a half-second too long. It’s trivial, in the context of the more temerarious things they’ve done with each other’s bodies, but every brush of skin still feels like pushing the boundaries of what is wise, of what he deserves. They never established any written rules for this thing between them, so everything is on the table; anything can be a step too far.

“May I?” he asks, sitting back in his chair and hovering the pen over the pages, poised to write in the margins. Essek nods.

“I think if you just adjust the formula here—” Caleb points to the spot with the tip of the quill for Essek to see “—and here—” he marks out his edits in a shorthand he knows Essek will understand “—and reposition this rune—” he crosses out the extraneous symbol with a flourish “—then you will be able to fix the acceleration problem you’ve been having.”

He slides the paper back over to Essek, but Essek isn’t looking at the notes. He is staring at Caleb.

“You could stay here,” he says. His mouth barely moves around the words, and if Caleb didn’t trust his perfect memory, he could almost believe that Essek hadn’t said anything at all.

“I can’t.” They’ve had this discussion once before, but that doesn’t make it easier. “I have a job to do, the same as you. I cannot abandon my position, or my home.”

“You could. But you won’t.”

“No, I won’t. And neither will you. Do not try to pretend that I am the only one putting us in this position, Essek.” He manages to keep the acid bite out of his tone, but his words are still clipped, businesslike, so far removed from their earlier banter.

Essek averts his gaze, looking down at his notes but not really seeing them. “It isn’t the same. You are a known entity in Rosohna, you could have a place here. I cannot stay in the Empire without risking my neck.”

“You could. I keep telling you, it’s different now. We are making it different. At some point you will have to believe me.”

“Yes, I know. ‘A new age for the Empire.’” Essek laughs bitterly. “So you have told me.” He turns his head back to Caleb, eyebrows raised in challenge. “I hear that your council is working to expand diplomatic relations. Reaching out to Uthodurn, Tal’dorei, even as far as Marquet to establish alliances.”

This is information Essek could only have gotten through the Lens. Caleb makes no comment on it; he’s known that there are Dynasty spies in Rexxentrum, has always known, and he purposefully has not done anything to discover them. It’s only fair—he has plenty of his own agents in Xhorhas.

“That is correct.”

“The Dynasty has received no such invitation. No ambassadors to spare for your neighbors?”

Caleb says nothing. There is no use in trying to stop Essek when he’s making a point. 

“I don’t care,” Essek continues. “You know that I have never cared about the politics. But if your new, progressive regime still refuses to treat the Dynasty with dignity on a national level, how can I believe it when you say that I would have nothing to fear from living with you in the Empire?”

“Because you would be with _me_.”

Essek shakes his head. “You are not a god, Caleb. Even you can’t reverse generations of prejudice in a year. In ten years. In a lifetime.”

“I can try.”

Their argument lingers in the air for a second of silence. Two seconds. Three. Then Essek’s stern face splits slowly into a grin, proud and fond, yet hopelessly sad.

“I know you will. An idealist to the end, Widogast.”

Caleb snorts and raises an eyebrow. “That is not something I am often accused of being.”

“No?” Essek cocks his head to the side, feigning wonder. “I find that hard to believe. Since the day I met you, you have strived to do the impossible, and aimed your sights at the betterment of the world. What would you call such principles?”

Caleb purses his lips. “You give me too much credit.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Essek shrugs. “I suppose it isn’t always altruism that motivates you. But you still work towards a noble goal; power has yet to corrupt you the way it has every politician that has come before you.”

“I am not a politician.”

Essek grins at him again, amused at Caleb’s expense, and Caleb can only sigh in surrender to his point.

“And what about you?” He turns the tables back around.

“What about me?”

“What would you call yourself?” Caleb poses the question like a teacher coaxing his student to a conclusion. “The man who works tirelessly to know the secrets of the universe, who lives and works in a society where he must hide his true beliefs? Is that not idealistic, to think that you can guide your people towards, as you see it, a more productive way of life?”

“You are putting words in my mouth.”

“I am reading between the lines.”

“Your analysis is flawed.”

“Then please.” Caleb leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with intrigue in the same way they had when he was reading Essek’s notes. “Enlighten me, _mein Lehrer._ Why is it really that you remain here as the Shadowhand, when you are so disdainful of the Dynasty’s practices? _”_

Essek has to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. For someone so intelligent, Caleb can be quite obtuse at times.

“Resources. My position gives me access to the Conservatory, and the materials I need for my research.”

“And?”

Essek sighs. “And my Den has expectations of my success.”

“You hate them, too. Next.”

“What do you want me to say, Caleb?” Essek implores, his frustration growing. “You think that I operate out of some kind of secret benevolence? You have made this mistake before, of trying to attach good intentions to my actions which do not exist.”

“So you do not hope for a better world?” Caleb continues, undeterred. “You have no desire to see the Dynasty grow and improve, to progress beyond the limitations you perceive here?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“But nothing.” Caleb smiles the smile of the victorious. “Your motives do not need to be pure for your actions to benefit people.”

“And you would call that idealism?” Incredulity drips from Essek’s voice.

Caleb shakes his head. “No. Idealist was your word.” He leans forward, only inches away from Essek, expression cocky and sly. “I was proving you wrong.”

Essek bites his lip, unable to keep a perfectly straight face as he would like. Caleb is the only person who ever outfoxes him like this, and the feeling of defeat has by now become inextricably linked to all the other things he feels when Caleb is around.

The atmosphere shifts from the tension of their debate into a different kind of charge, electric and intoxicating. Just a blink, and they both can tell the other has sensed it.

“I have to be back by eight tomorrow, Rexxentrum time. I have a meeting.” Caleb’s gaze flicks down to Essek’s lips. “I am yours until then.”

* * *

There’s no routine to it—no regular meeting times, no consistency. They go wherever is convenient: Essek’s place, Caleb’s, the Nascent Tower. They switch positions on a whim, are rough with each other one night and gentle the next, becoming whatever the other requires in the moment. 

It isn’t a relationship; it’s a need. Physical, yes, but also the rare company of someone who truly _understands_.

Caleb’s grip on Essek’s arms is tight enough to leave bruises, and Essek bites down on Caleb’s lower lip hard enough to put the taste of blood in both their mouths. It has been years since their last rendezvous, an incredibly stressful, frustrating two years of putting out fires and staunching ever-escalating conflict. The shadow war threatens to spill back out into the open again, and sometimes it feels as if they are the only two people in their respective governments trying to prevent bloodshed.

Caleb fumbles clumsily at the buttons of Essek’s shirt. Essek pushes him down onto the bed and takes over the task of undressing them both, pausing at every step to reconnect their lips.

The Empire is keen for a show of power. The new administration has finally reached a state of relative stability, and is eager to prove its strength to the rest of the world, as well as its own citizens. The more war-minded among the council argue that preemptive action is necessary. Without a deterrent, they claim, the Empire’s enemies are sure to take forceful measures in order to stifle their progress.

“Hurry up,” Caleb complains in a mumble. Essek’s movements still just as his fingers reach the waistband of Caleb’s pants. He narrows his eyes. 

“Yes, sir,” he replies, contemptuous at the challenge Caleb has tacitly set.

There are those in the Dynasty who argued for invasion the minute news of King Dwendal’s death reached Rosohna. Most of them were also against the peace negotiations. The Dynasty had so much more to gain in the war than just recovering the beacons, they insist, and they were _winning_. With the Dwendalian Empire rebuilding power so quickly, action needs to be taken sooner rather than later. 

Essek undoes the fastenings of Caleb’s pants with renewed urgency. Free of clothing at last, he lowers his mouth to press kiss after kiss against the soft skin of Caleb’s inner thigh, fingers gripping his hips.

“Oh. We’re starting there, are we?” Caleb mutters from above him.

Caleb has tried to reason with the council; he uses his network of informants to dissuade violence as best he can. Unfortunately, his reports on the strength of the Dynasty’s forces only stir his colleagues' fear.

Essek looks up, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Is this too slow for you?” 

Essek has even less sway with the Bright Queen. War is not his field, and no one in the court wants to listen to a new soul on this matter, no matter how good his arguments. 

He doesn’t give Caleb a chance to respond, and neither of them speaks again for hours, communicating only in grunts and gasps and guiding touches.

* * *

Bitter winds blow outside, cacophonous across the tundra. Caleb watches the frantic dance of snowflakes as they are battered this way and that through the air. At odds with the frigid landscape, he feels perfectly warm, separated from the storm by nothing but a film of magic. Some enchantment akin to the _Tiny Hut_ keeps the space underneath this tent pleasantly cozy and guarded from the gale, as if they were sheltered indoors with a roaring fire.

Essek flicks his eyes nervously back and forth across the group. It has been ages since he’s seen the Mighty Nein, though he’s heard much of what they’ve been up to recently. News of the Empire’s near-collapse was of great interest to the Dynasty, and he’s been keeping a close eye on the past few months of rebuilding efforts, to which the Mighty Nein have been central. 

Knowing this, he was even more shocked to run into them here. He would have thought they had more pressing duties at the moment than a dangerous expedition to Molaesmyr. 

“We are looking for Ludinus Da’leth,” Caleb explains when Essek voices his surprise. “We have reason to believe he may be hiding out here, somewhere.” 

Beauregard and Fjord both toss him warning looks, but Caleb ignores them. He has made a decision, and he is sticking to it. Essek recognizes the look in his eyes—it is the same one he wore when he gave Essek the potion of extracted dunamis that Veth’s husband created.

It’s trust. Caleb has made a decision to trust Essek with this information.

“The Dynasty believes a beacon may be hidden beneath the ruins. We are here to search for it,” Essek responds. His eyes flicker over to where his expedition team is assembling another tent, fifty feet away. They are well out of earshot, but he can’t help but be nervous, even under the cover of the howling wind. The Mighty Nein are no longer a neutral party between the Empire and the Dynasty; he shouldn’t even be sitting down with them like this, much less spilling secrets about his mission. But fair is fair.

The Mighty Nein toss looks across at each other, coming to an unspoken consensus. Caleb turns back to Essek.

“Maybe we can help each other, then.”

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” Essek accuses, and Caleb cannot come up with an immediate answer. 

“I risked everything,” he continues in a harsh whisper, which still manages to fill the small room. “ _Everything,_ to study the beacons. It is a miracle that I am still alive and uncaptured after what I did. You know that better than anyone, Caleb, and still you kept this from me. Even the Assembly at least pretended to share their research with me!” His voice rises in a crescendo of anger.

“It was too dangerous.” 

“ _Bullshit!_ ”

Caleb feels his grasp on the mask of professionalism slipping away, transforming his demeanor from composed into pleading.

“I’m sorry.”

A deep sigh escapes Essek, long and tired and wounded. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Caleb purses his lips. “I don’t know,” he says, half-truthful. “Convenience, fear… suspicion.”

Throat tight, Essek nods and looks down at the floor. It is a small, miserable gesture, one that says, _Of course, I should have known._

“You will never trust me.” He looks back up into Caleb’s eyes, and steely resignation has overtaken the anger in his gaze.

“Essek—”

“How many years, Caleb? I have lied for you, deceived, committed so many more acts of treason than the one you still hold against me—all for you. What will it take before you trust me again?”

“This isn’t about that.” Caleb exhales his own bone-deep sigh. “I _do_ trust you, Essek. I trust your skills. I trust your loyalty to your friends. I trust that you have a good heart underneath it all, even if you do not believe it. I just wanted to be—for there to be an intermediary. If we had ever discovered anything of substance, I would have told you immediately, but—”

“But you could not trust me to do the research myself, the most powerful practitioner of dunamancy currently alive, who has a thousand times more experience and understanding of these beacons than anyone in the Empire possibly could.”

Caleb bites his lip. “Yes.”

“Then _why?_ ” Essek clenches his teeth around a shout, painfully aware of where they are and what could happen if some well-meaning castle guard came to check on the noise. 

Caleb opens his mouth to answer, but all his reasons, the excuses he’s told himself over the years, turn to ash on his tongue. It is all true, and that is the problem; he trusts Essek, he cannot imagine him betraying them again, yet he still fears what Essek might do with the power in the beacon. Such a private man, he must have plans he still keeps to himself. Caleb certainly does.

Swallowing the bitter shame, Caleb abandons attempts to explain himself.

“Let me take you to it.” 

* * *

A fluke, they both think the next morning. A marvelous and thoroughly satisfying fluke, yes, but the odds of it happening again are slim. There are cults to thwart, corrupt governments to fix, acts of treason to get away with, and a cold war between their countries still under way. Not to mention the still-festering wound of betrayal forming a chasm between them, which one night of foolish passion cannot fully bridge.

Caleb leaves in the early hours of the morning, far before the sun would be rising across the border. His friends will worry, he says, if they wake up and find him gone. Essek nods, and does not question the implication that Caleb isn’t going to tell the Mighty Nein what happened here—he would have assumed it anyway. He has no delusions about what this is, and they don’t need to discuss it.

“Where are you all going next?” he asks instead as Caleb dresses. It’s meant to be an innocuous question, but Caleb shoots him a wary look, and Essek lowers his head, suitably chastened. It’s not that he thought sex was going to earn him trust; he simply forgot for a blissful moment that he had ever lost it.

He has to remind himself again the next time. And the next time. And the next time.

* * *

Caleb provides his tower for all of them to escape the chill of Molaesmyr, even creating guest chambers for every single one of Essek’s expedition team. Essek worries briefly that his magical prowess is being upstaged in the eyes of his subordinates, but on the other hand, the amenities and charming swarm of cat attendants should serve as a decent bribe to keep their lips sealed. He can’t have them reporting back to the Dynasty that this mission involved collusion with Empire agents.

Caleb shows them all to their rooms after dinner, and Essek betrays no disappointment upon learning that his quarters are several floors away from Caleb’s, just as he keeps his flutter of excitement under wraps when Caleb knocks on his door hours into the night. 

“We need to talk.”

They retreat into the secondary chamber of the guest room, and Essek sits down in one of the many chairs provided. “I already told you everything. We are here to look for a beacon. I have not kept back any information about my mission—nothing of substance, at least.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” Caleb, still standing, rubs a hand over his forearm, and Essek belatedly notices the sheepishness in his slumped posture. 

Finally, Caleb takes a seat opposite him. “I am sorry we haven’t been in contact with you for so long. Things have been… hectic, on our end.”

Essek shrugs. “I’m used to it at this point.”

Caleb hangs his head at that, feeling guilty and then a little annoyed at that guilt. Of all the excuses not to call on your one-night stand, stopping a coup and rebuilding a nation is a pretty good one.

Not that Caleb knows anything about one-night stands. Not that he would think of Essek that way, if he did.

“How much do you know of what’s been happening in the Empire?” he asks.

“Everything, more or less.”

“So you know of the position I have taken?”

Essek nods. “What is it they are calling you? _Geheimhalter?_ ”

A snort of laughter escapes Caleb at the butchered pronunciation. “I suppose it doesn’t have quite the same ring as ‘Shadowhand,’” he says. Essek shrugs one shoulder, one corner of his mouth curving into a smile.

“I sort of like it. It is very… Zemnian.”

A beat of silence, and the respite of levity fades as quickly as it appeared. Caleb sighs, rubbing a hand over his mouth. His beard is growing in again, and in the quiet, Essek can hear the way the sandpaper stubble rustles under his touch. 

“You are our friend, Essek. You are _my_ friend. But you understand how this complicates things?”

“Yes.” 

“I think… I think we can make the situation work to our advantage, if you are interested,” he muses. “Collaborating—like we are doing with our respective missions here. We both hold the keys to vast stores of information, and I believe we share a hope of maintaining this peace.” He pauses there to incline his head, eyes boring into Essek, searching for any hint of concealed dissent. “I think, with our positions, we could form a necessary bridge between opposing factions, as well as continuing to share our explorations into the arcane. We just have to be careful.”

“You may be surprised to learn this, Caleb, but I have some experience secretly trading information with members of the Empire’s government.”

Caleb laughs again, short-lived but full of release. “Fair enough,” he concedes. “But that brings me to my next point. If we are going to attempt this, I think it would be wise to… eliminate distraction.” He gives Essek a significant look, the light from his globules reflecting in his eyes like miniature suns.

“Ah, yes.” Essek clears his throat, trying to keep any regret out of his voice as he says, “That is probably for the best.”

“Please don’t think I am using this as an excuse,” Caleb adds hurriedly. “I don’t want…” But the words stop short of leaving his mouth, too many half-formed thoughts getting bunched up on the way out. He purses his lips, inwardly cursing his graceless tongue.

“It’s alright, Caleb.” Essek attempts a reassuring smile, and silently thanks the gods that he has never been a crier.

They sit in silence for a long stretch, punctuated by fleeting moments of eye contact which neither of them has the courage to maintain, each trapped in his own circling thoughts.

“I—” Caleb finally tries to speak again. Essek raises his head at the sound, lips slightly parted and eyes uncharacteristically vulnerable, and whatever words Caleb intended to say die in his throat. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers to himself. He knew this would happen, and yet he came to Essek anyway, alone and late into the night. _Because_ he knew this would happen. 

Though most take him for a man of constraint, Caleb is really more of a glutton at his core. His favored vices take unusual forms—guilt, self-recrimination, hubris—but that doesn’t mean he is immune to the more traditional indulgences.

As though with a mind of their own, his legs lift him up from his chair and carry him over to Essek. Less than a second, and Caleb is on top of him, knees straddling Essek’s lap, one hand gripping the back of the chair for balance and the other cradling Essek’s jaw, tilting his head upward.

Essek accepts him readily, his response immediate. He shifts to make room; it’s a chair meant for one, but they fit together easily. His lips meet Caleb’s as if guided by magnetism, his arms slotting into place around Caleb’s waist.

They are both perfectly aware of the other’s obvious arousal, but neither is in a hurry to address it. Something about this place, a plane of Caleb’s own creation one centimeter off of reality, makes it seem like they have all the time in the world. Every touch feels amplified a hundredfold, and they have months to make up for, so why not take their time, starting with mouths and hands and gradually working their way down through the night.

* * *

Caleb does not hear the news from Essek. It comes to him from one of his spies, speaking into his mind from her assigned post in Xhorhas while Caleb is in the middle of a routine meeting of his primary advisors.

_I have just gotten word: the Bright Queen is dead._

Years of training and practice keep Caleb’s expression impassive as he processes these words. If anyone present looked very closely at him, they might notice his fingers twitch or his sudden intake of breath, but they could never deduce the enormity of the cause. 

He holds up one finger, interrupting Astrid as politely as possible, and responds to the message quietly.

“Keep me updated. Take no action, await further instructions.”

No one bats an eye at this; most of Caleb’s colleagues are used to him receiving magical communications at odd times. 

Seeing he has no more to say, Astrid opens her mouth to continue the meeting, but Caleb rises from his seat, cutting her off.

“Apologies, _Leutnantin._ Something has come up which requires my attention. Please, continue without me,” he says, already halfway to the door. 

“Do you want me to come with y—?”

Caleb cuts her off again. His composure is beginning to wear thin as a thousand thoughts and half-formed plans fight for his attention. “No, _nein,_ finish your report. I will… I will fill you in later.”

He isn’t sure if this is true, and Astrid can probably sense his uncertainty, but she knows better than to question him in front of subordinates. 

“Yes, sir.” She nods and resumes speaking while Caleb exits the room. 

Out in the hall, once the door is shut behind him, he only takes a brief moment to check for onlookers before casting the spell. A muttered incantation, one hand in his pocket grabbing onto the token, and he is gone, reappearing so many miles away in a familiar laboratory.

Essek is nowhere to be seen, and Caleb doesn’t bother checking the rest of the tower. Given what little he knows, he has to assume that Essek is at the Lucid Bastion. Instead of searching for him, Caleb pulls a piece of copper wire from another coat pocket and sends his thoughts out into the ether.

_Essek, I am here. I need to talk to you, as soon as you can return._

Several seconds pass without an answering voice. He can sense that the spell reached its target, which puts to rest any worry he might have had for Essek’s life, but does not reassure him of Essek’s safety. There is no way of knowing whether he can’t answer because he is too busy dealing with the situation, or because he is in some kind of danger.

Full of adrenaline and frantic nerves, Caleb paces around the study, debating with himself. He has half a mind to go to the Bastion himself, but that would be madness. The unannounced arrival of an Empire mage in such a moment of turmoil would not be taken well by the Dynasty, or whatever is left of it.

Looking out the window, he can see no signs of disaster or unrest. Whatever circumstances caused the Bright Queen’s death, news does not seem to have spread into the city.

With no other good options, Caleb forces himself to sit down in one of the desk chairs to wait.

It takes hours, during which time Caleb’s addled brain circulates through every hypothetical it can conjure, formulating plan upon plan, contingency upon contingency.

A door slams from somewhere downstairs, and Caleb jumps to his feet. Moments later, an irate Essek charges into the laboratory. Even still gliding, his usual grace and composure is cracked and crumbling, his face a storm.

He stops short several feet from Caleb. 

“You know.” 

It is not a question, but Caleb nods just the same.

“Of course you do,” Essek snarls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are getting sloppy, Widogast,” he continues bitterly. “It has been over a day; your information is lagging.”

Caleb waits silently. Whatever he expected from Essek, this volatile anger was not it.

Chest heaving, Essek throws off his mantle and drops to his feet, and it is this gesture of trust that gives Caleb the confidence to speak.

“What—what happened?” is all he can manage to stammer out.

Essek’s jaw works, chewing on so many possible words and not knowing where to start. Every turn of phrase he can think of to describe it seems so flimsy, so foolish.

“She went mad,” he says finally, and he was right—it’s as inadequate an explanation as it sounds.

“What do you mean?”

“She—” Energy hums under Essek’s skin, like the potentiality of dunamis, begging to be released. “It’s the beacons.” He knows he isn’t making much sense, but nothing about the past day and a half days has made sense, so why should he?”

Except it does make sense, perfect sense, if only he had seen the patterns before it was too late, if only he’d known. He should have known.

He looks at Caleb, standing there in all the vestments and trappings of the Empire, and a part of him wants to refuse, to send him away without an explanation. He wishes he could say it was because after years of handing sensitive information over to the Empire without hesitation, he has finally found a sense of loyalty enough to keep this most closely guarded secret, but in reality his reluctance is just vindictiveness. Caleb kept an enormous secret from him for years, and he wants to pay the favor back.

But he has to say it to someone, and who else is there?

“They call it typhros.” He is just proving that the Umavi were right to keep this from him, but the words spill out of him like water, as unstoppable as the ever-beating tide. “It happens when a consecuted person is no longer able to hold so many lives inside themselves. The weight of all those memories, it can break their mind.”

There is very little that surprises Caleb these days, but this makes him gape.

“How has this stayed secret? Surely someone—”

“It is rare,” Essek explains. “And there are only so many consecuted souls. If a person exhibits these symptoms, they are usually quickly and quietly taken care of. Apparently,” he adds bitterly.

“You didn’t know about this until now?” Caleb surmises.

Essek shakes his head. “The Umavi did not see fit to share such a secret with a new soul. If I had not been present to witness it happen, I imagine I would have been fed whatever cover story they devise for the public.”

“Will you—” Caleb swallows around his uncertainty. “Will you tell me what happened?”

A humorless laugh escapes Essek. Of course he’s going to tell Caleb what happened. He tells Caleb everything.

“She attacked the Skysybil. In the middle of a meeting. They were discussing the possibility of sending more missions into the Empire to hunt for beacons. The Skysybil argued against the idea, and she just…” Essek trails off. It had been obvious that something was wrong for weeks, but he’d been too solipsistic to pay close attention.

“The Dusk Captain… stopped her. And we have all spent the past forty hours locked in the Cathedral, scrambling for a plan for what to do.” Essek pauses. Saying it aloud, a wave of the fatigue he’s been keeping at bay hits him all at once. Instead of collapsing, though, he fixes Caleb with a shrewd gaze. “I don’t know how your agents learned about this; everyone who witnessed it has been under watch.”

“They are very good at their job.”

“Why are you here, Caleb?” Essek sighs. “What did you hope to accomplish by coming here?”

“I needed more information. I needed to know what was happening, so I could come up with a plan before this news spreads to the rest of the Empire.”

“A plan for what?”

Caleb pauses. Now it is his turn to mull over his words, attempting to explain verbally what is barely even an idea yet.

“The last time a monarch was killed on this continent, it did a lot of good for their country. It was a difficult process, one that is still ongoing really, but still… I think we have an opportunity here.”

* * *

“By the Light,” Caleb hisses through his clenched jaw, voice hoarse but filled with mirth at his little joke, his fists twisting into the soft linen sheets. A bark of harsh laughter comes from behind him.

“Don’t do that,” Essek mutters into his shoulder.

“No?” Caleb tries to sound coy, but it’s hard to pull off when Essek chooses that moment to nip at the spot where his neck meets his collarbone. Caleb’s jaw clenches once again as a shudder of pleasure radiates through him. Rather than his planned smart-ass comment about the erotic potential of religious symbology, he emits a rather undignified whine, which was of course Essek’s intention.

“If there is one place and time I least want to be thinking about the Luxon, it is here and now.”

“You quite enjoyed it last time,” Caleb points out.

The steady rhythm of Essek’s body against his falters for a moment. He’s struck a nerve, it seems.

“That was last time,” Essek says darkly.

“What changed?”

A hand snakes around Caleb’s head to firmly cover his mouth. “How about we don’t talk?”

Caleb acquiesces. It’s easy to do, when Essek seems determined to distract him from conversation using various parts of his body.

Later, though, when they’re both on their backs and breathing heavily, he rolls over to look at Essek.

“What was that about?”

Essek knows instantly what he is referring to, and a sheepish look spreads over his face. He fiddles with a loose thread on the pillow, avoiding eye contact.

“Exploiting my frustration with the Dynasty for sex wasn’t quite as cathartic as I had hoped it would be,” he rushes out in one breath. “And I am a bit embarrassed about last time.”

“There’s no need to be,” Caleb assures him. 

Essek stares up at the ceiling in silence for a long while. He drops the thread, forcing his restless fingers to stop fidgeting. 

“How do you do it?” he says, long after Caleb has given up on continuing the conversation. 

“Do what?”

Another lengthy pause as Essek chews on his words. 

“I am among the most powerful people in my country,” he begins. “And I spend every day playing the sycophant to zealots and morons. Ever since the peace negotiations, the Bright Queen has become even more obsessed with religious ends. Every spare resource is being pushed towards the Luxon—expanding temples and converting populations beyond the Dynasty’s sphere. She drives us daily towards ruin with her frivolous pursuits, and the council all seem happy to indulge her, or they are too afraid to contradict her. I know I am—if I dissent, I risk drawing her suspicion, and I cannot afford to be under scrutiny.”

He inhales sharply, finally running out of breath. He hadn’t meant to go on such a tirade. Glancing aside at Caleb, Essek finds him staring and smiling.

“What?” Self-conscious under Caleb’s gaze, it comes out somewhat petulant.

“You’re cute when you’re angry.” 

Heat rises in Essek’s cheeks, turning his already dark skin the color of rich wine.

“How do you stand it?” he persists. “The Empire has done nothing for you— _less_ than nothing. It took your family from you, your innocence, a decade of your life. And now you work for them, sacrificing so much time and effort for their ends. How do you look at the course of your life and yet remain so patriotic?”

“A country is not its leaders, Essek.” Caleb shifts to sit up against the pillows, and doesn’t think too hard about the dissonance that this, of all things, is their post-coital conversation topic. It’s actually quite appropriate for them, all things considered. “A country is its people, and the people of the Empire deserve better than what they have. Better than what _I_ had. And I am in a position to give that to them.”

“It doesn’t bother you, then, all the compromises you have to make? Or are you so naïve as to believe your charitability has purged the Empire of all its evil deeds in just a few short years?”

“I am not. And of course it bothers me. There are plenty of things the Empire has done with my help that I am not exactly proud of. But compromises are necessary for progress to be made.”

“Right.” Essek stares up at the ceiling, a mad sort of half-smile on his face. “The ends justify the means, so long as they are your ends.”

“Essek—”

“I’m sorry,” Essek cuts him off. “I just—I think you are more cut out for this than I am.”

Caleb’s eyebrows raise in puzzlement. “You have been making compromises for much longer than I have, Essek. I would say you are quite adept at this line of work.”

“I was. But it is harder now, for some reason. It keeps getting harder to stand it, every day.”

Caleb thinks of asking when it started getting harder, to have his suspicions confirmed beyond any doubt, but why bother?

He can’t decide whether to feel guilty or proud, recalling that evening on the Balleater. _Regret is a very new sensation;_ he knows it was them who inspired that feeling in Essek, as much as he knows that Essek has never really stopped feeling it. Everything that has come since, every piece of information they’ve exchanged, has been an expression of that regret. 

Caleb knows what it is to be ruthless, and he knows what it is to have ruthlessness overtaken by compassion. You can never unlearn such a painful lesson. It spreads to every corner of your life. It ruins you.

Caleb pushes himself up from the pillows and stretches over Essek, placing his knees on either side of Essek’s hips and his hands on either side of his face.

If it is his fault that Essek now knows the torment of a conscience, he can at least offer him a reward for all the hard work that goes into being a sliver of a moral person.

* * *

The lab is deserted at this time of night; the handful of people who have access to it outside of Caleb are all enjoying the festivities back at the castle. There are still guards stationed around the Sanatorium, but Caleb waves them all off as he leads the re-disguised Lord Thane to the off-limits floor which he alone commands.

Essek approaches the beacon with caution, part of him unable to believe it is really there. As if bracing for an electric shock, he places one hand gingerly on its surface, then the other. Caleb watches from several feet away as Essek stares into its depths, attuning with its potent energy.

A minute passes, and then Essek feels the mote of possibility settle in his soul, confirming that this is indeed a real Luxon beacon. He looks up at Caleb, eyes darkly clouded.

“What would you do,” he asks, “if I just took it now?”

“Please don’t make me answer that, Essek.”

Essek nods; this is what he expected to hear. 

“I want to see all your research,” he demands, businesslike. “Past and future, and unlimited access to the beacon in perpetuity.”

“You know I cannot do that.” 

“Why not?”

Instead of answering, Caleb puts forward a counter offer. “I can show you all that we have so far, and give you my word that you will be informed of any significant discoveries made in the future.”

“No.” Essek has one hand still placed protectively on top of the beacon. “You give me everything, or I bring this information—” He taps his index finger against the beacon, a tiny sound that echoes through the empty space. “—back to the Dynasty.”

“ _Essek._ ” Caleb’s voice is halfway between a plea and a growl. “You would not sacrifice the peace we have worked so hard to maintain for this—”

“I have done it before, haven’t I?” Essek’s eyes are chips of ice as they bore into Caleb, but twice as sharp and twice as cold. His chilly demeanor diffuses into the very air around them, and Caleb shivers.

“Yes. But I thought you had changed.”

A caustic grin spreads over Essek’s face, a grim mirror to the amused look he used to give the Mighty Nein when they first arrived in Rosohna. “And now I finally get to prove you wrong.”

The chill makes its way from the air into Caleb’s bones and pierces his heart. “Fine,” he says. “But I hope you realize that this right here, _this_ is why I kept it secret from you.”

The haughtiness disappears from Essek’s smile, making it look hollow and sad. His voice is just as empty when he speaks.

“I knew you never really believed it. All those times you told me I could be better… you were just trying to keep me in line. Manipulate me.”

“You don’t think it can be both? That you have not done the same to me?”

Essek doesn’t answer. The smile slips off his face entirely, turning his expression into a blank mask. His hand slides off the beacon and into his cloak, and he rises a few inches off the ground.

“I have to return to Rosohna. I will be back in the morning to go over your research.”

Caleb nods with a clenched jaw, biting back so many words of anger, of regret, of disappointment, of apology. Essek glides over to an empty space on the floor, kneeling down to begin drawing out a teleportation circle, and resolutely ignoring Caleb.

“You can—you can stay here tonight, if you like.” Caleb tries, a desperate experiment. “With me, if that would be easier.”

Essek pauses just before the circle is complete. He raises his head to stare stonily at Caleb.

“I will see you in the morning,” he says, and finishes the circle with a curt slash of chalk. He disappears in a flash, and Caleb is alone in the cold.

* * *

“He is quite sharp, isn’t he?” Astrid appears at Caleb’s side. They are both facing across the room, watching Essek shake hands with Headmistress Saugiss of the Soltryce Academy. 

“You’ve spoken to him?”

“Only briefly. Before you and Saugiss arrived, we spoke a bit about your latest proposition. He almost managed to convince me it isn’t a terrible idea.”

“It is a very good idea,” Caleb tells her for perhaps the hundredth time. “We are embarking towards a new age, Astrid. Free exchange of information.”

“Sure,” Eadwulf materializes on his other side. “Until they get what they want from us and stab us in the back.”

“In this case, it is us who want something from them.” Caleb doesn’t so much as flinch at his sudden appearance. “And that man is the one person who can give it to us, so please be nice, both of you.”

Astrid cocks her head, giving him an appraising look. “You know him well, don’t you? He’s the one you told me about, who worked with your group when you were in Ghor Dranas.”

“Rosohna,” Caleb corrects her. “And yes, he is.”

“And you really think this accord will go through? That he is going to share dunamancy with us?” Her words are sharp with skepticism. 

“The Krynn Dynasty has guarded the practice jealously for centuries. They’re not just going to let us study their most cherished secrets, no matter how much you wine and dine their—what was it? ‘Shadowhand?’” Eadwulf adds.

“He will convince them. He is very persuasive.”

Astrid narrows her eyes at him. “What makes you so sure _you_ can convince _him?_ ”

Caleb smiles coyly. “It is already done.”

Astrid opens her mouth to question him further, but falls quiet as Essek and the headmistress approach them. 

“Welcome, Shadowhand Thelyss.” Caleb holds out his hand for a formal shake. “It is good to see you again.”

Essek accepts the handshake, but stares Caleb down with a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed look on his face.

“Hello, _Caleb_ ,” he says pointedly. The corner of his lip twitches in amusement. 

They hold the handshake and each other’s gaze a few moments longer than necessary.

Astrid and Eadwulf straighten up in scrutiny, making brief eye contact behind Caleb’s back. The three of them grew up together, and have spent the past thirteen years working side by side. They know how to read each other, can recognize the subtlest shift in body language, and it is clear to the both of them that Caleb had been keeping quite a few secrets.

* * *

Time heals all wounds, so they say. Time, distance, and mutually assured destruction.

Essek does not so much forgive Caleb for hiding the beacon from him as he just decides to continue on anyway. They are too wrapped up in each other by now for anything to drive them fully apart—however unraveled they think they are, some string remains to drag them back together, eventually.

“It occurred to me, recently,” Essek says, unprompted, when they are alone together in the Vergessen laboratory. Due to their busy schedules and the need for secrecy, opportunities for Essek to come and study the beacon are few and far between—only a handful across three years, so far—but the ice between them thaws with every visit. “We are even, now.”

Caleb looks up from his notes, brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”

“In terms of betrayal. If my count is correct, I believe we are both down one against each other.”

Caleb considers this. “Yes. I suppose you are right.” He pauses, waffling over another apology. He decides against it. Forgiveness is not their method, progress is.

He moves to Essek’s side, leaning over to point out a particular line of interest on the report he’s been reading. Before he can speak, Essek is grabbing his outstretched hand and tugging him close for a kiss. It is slow and soft, and it feels like returning home after a long time away.

“What was that for?” Caleb asks, not as a complaint but out of genuine curiosity.

“I missed you,” Essek answers, with a look on his face like even he is surprised by what he is admitting. His grip on Caleb’s arm becomes fiercer as he presses his lips to Caleb’s again. This one is more forceful, almost desperate, full of all the unsaid things that have passed between them since that night, the good and the bad.

Reluctantly, Caleb pulls away first. “We have less than two hours before my assistants arrive,” he reminds Essek, lifting up the papers in his hand to serve as a barrier between them. Then, for added measure, “And I’m not fucking you in a pristine laboratory.”

“Fine.” Essek releases Caleb’s hand and returns his attention to the research. “Later, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be more sex and less politics, but I guess that's what happens when you draft a story while binging the West Wing and edit it in the wake of Election Week Hell.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://the-littlest-goblin.tumblr.com).


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